The Gay Way at Westway

I could of danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. Tuesday night is the new Friday night for gays. It started just after Cinderella ended hers. She could of spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet; if she didn’t lose her shoe and had a better fairy godmother. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. However, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village.

Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower, which I failed each time, unable to resist yet another cocktail. Two sips and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel searching for a senator to suck on. I danced with a brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor like a Canadian on summer vacation drinking Canada Dry. Make no mistake I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, dressed in high heels and short shorts.

We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot it was in again. It was uncomfortable at first like my new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, save his weave that swayed from side to side, dripping with sweat and grease—sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyways.

After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. During my walk to the station, I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and average.
“Where are you going,” said the tall one.
“I’m walking to the station.”
“No, you’re going the wrong way.”
“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”
“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”
“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”

Who said New Yorker’s weren’t friendly? We walked a couple of blocks towards the one train. Although, I needed the A train; I figured I was one step closer to my destination. I ditched the two strangers after getting directions. Moments later I ran into Sebastian, a freelance visual merchandiser I worked with three months ago. He exited the train station, equipped with Vicodin and a smile. He was 6ft tall and in his mid-30’s. He greeted me with a kiss on the lips. Sebastian was drunk and so was I, so I let it slide.

“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.”
His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India.

“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hangout, not have sex with you.”
He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it.
“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”

I was drunk that night too, post break-up in a short black skirt. We could have gone as far as we wanted. I could of used a distraction. Instead we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.

“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.”
He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for just one more kiss. He held out a white pill in his palm.
“What is that?”
“It’s Vicodin. You take it with champagne and gets you where you need to be”
“How Upper East Side of you?”
“Save it for later and do it at home.”
And that’s exactly what I did. He kissed me good night.
“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.”

He winked at me and went down the stairs. I made it home wondering if I’ll ever see him again.